“We had a man across the street who shot her in the head. But she survived and is at Bellevue, in a protected ward, so we can’t get at her.”
“She survived a head shot?” Hank asked, incredulous.
“It was a small-caliber round, to keep the noise down — and I didn’t want her head exploding like a watermelon. The angle wasn’t right.”
“Can we get at her?”
“No, her area is under twenty-four-hour police guard. There are a couple of murder witnesses in the ward, too.”
Henry took a sip of water from a glass, then turned to Elise. “Please get me some ice for my water.”
Elise rose, went to the door, then ran for the ladies’ room, getting there just in time. Then she ran to the ice machine, filled an ice bucket, and went back to Henry’s office, where they were still speaking Sicilian. She poured him a fresh glass, then resumed her seat.
“What about Barrington?”
“He’s a tough nut to crack,” Damien said. “I got the plans for his house from the city, and the house is armored.”
“‘Armored’?” Hank asked. “The whole house?”
“Believe it or not. He has some sort of government connection. One of our people got a good look at the Bentley, and that’s armored, too.”
“Keep at it,” Henry said. “Now get out of here, both of you.” He turned to Elise. “Now.”
She took a seat next to his desk and got her pad ready. He began to speak, still in Sicilian.
“Excuse me, Mr. Thomas,” she said. “You’re speaking another language I can’t understand.”
“Sorry,” Thomas said. He dictated the letter in English.
Elise went back to her desk, typed and printed the letter, got it signed, ran it through the postage meter, and put it in her out box.
She was trembling. She and Sherry had known each other fairly well at work, had had lunch a couple of times. She had been in a downstairs department at the time. Now, transferred to the executive offices, she was learning who she worked for, and she feared Sherry might be dead. She was afraid to quit her job.
After work, she bought some flowers at a Korean market and took a taxi to Bellevue. She couldn’t find the ward on the hallway directory, but she saw two policemen get onto an elevator and followed them. They emerged into a hallway, mostly blocked by a steel desk, manned by a uniformed officer. She approached and gave him Sherry’s name and her own.
He consulted a list. “You’re not approved,” the officer said. “State your business.”
“Sherry and I worked together. She’s not expecting me, but she’ll want to see me.”
“Let me see your driver’s license,” he said. A nurse passed through, and he gave her the license. “See if the girl wants to see this lady.”
A minute later, Elise was seated at Sherry’s bedside.
“Hello, Elise. This is a surprise,” Sherry said.
“How are you?”
“Better than I should be. I still have a headache, but at least they didn’t cut my hair off. How did you find me?”
“I overheard a conversation among the bosses, and your name came up. Why are they trying to kill you?”
“Probably because they think I know more about them than I do.”
“I know a lot about them,” Elise said. “They speak all the time in Sicilian and my mother is Sicilian. I grew up speaking it at home with her and my grandmother.”
“You should get out of there,” Sherry said.
“I’m afraid to. They could come looking for me, like you.”
“You have a point. Listen, Elise,” Sherry said, lowering her voice. “Would you speak to someone I know and tell him about this?”
“Who? I don’t want to get caught at it.”
“He lives over in Turtle Bay, you know it?”
“Yes. Katharine Hepburn lived there, didn’t she?”
“That’s the one. He has ways of getting in and out of his house without being seen.”
“Who is he?”
“A lawyer named Stone Barrington. My boyfriend is living there at the moment. His name is Bob Cantor.”
“I’ve heard them mention both of those names, but I couldn’t figure out who they were.”
“Well,” Sherry said, looking toward the door, “here’s Bob now.” She made the introduction.
Elise got out of a cab at a corner of Third Avenue, then she stood in front of a flower shop and waited, as she had been instructed. A moment later, Bob Cantor appeared and took her through a door, and after a walk down a tunnel, into a garage. They went up a floor and into a living room, where Bob took her coat.
“I can hear him on the phone,” Bob said. “Have a seat, and I’ll come get you when he’s finished with the call.”
Elise sat down and looked around her. It was a handsome room, she thought, with a lot of nice pictures. For just a moment, she had to fight off panic. What if, in spite of all the precautions, some of the Thomases’ people had seen her come here? Maybe they had followed her from the hospital.
Bob came back. “This way,” he said, and he showed her into a smaller room with a lot of books. Two men sat in chairs before the fireplace, and they stood up as she entered.
“Elise,” Bob said, “this is Stone Barrington.” He indicated the taller of the two men. “And this is Dino Bacchetti, who is the police commissioner of New York.”
Elise heaved a sigh of relief. “May I use your bathroom, please?”
37
While Elise was in the bathroom, Stone called Jamie Cox.
“Hello?”
“Hi, do you have a few free minutes to listen to somebody?”
“Sure. Who is it?”
“I’ll leave the phone on speaker, so you can hear our conversation. Later, you may want to ask her some questions. Take notes.”
“All right.”
Elise returned from the bathroom and sat down.
“Would you like something to drink, Elise?” Stone asked.
“Thank you, I’d like a bourbon and Diet Coke.”
Stone winced, but made the drink and handed it to her. “A friend of mine, Jamie Cox, is on the phone. I’d like her to hear our conversation, if that’s all right.”
“The woman who wrote that big piece in the Times?”
“That’s the one.”
“It’s fine.” She took a swig of her bourbon and Diet Coke.
“Now,” Stone said, “for Jamie’s benefit, your name is Elise Grant, is that correct?”
“Yes.” She spelled it for them.
“May I ask your age, Elise?”
“Twenty-four.”
“And you work for H. Thomas & Son?”
“I do.”
“How long have you worked there?”
“Almost two years. I started downstairs in accounting, then I got a promotion to legal, then I got moved upstairs to the executive offices about eight months ago.”
“Who do you work for there?”
“There are five of us on the floor, and we all work for whoever needs us: Mr. Henry Thomas — he’s the old one; his grandson, Hank Thomas, who used to be a congressman; and a relative — I’m not exactly sure how they’re related, but he’s family — Lawrance Damien. They call him Rance. Old Mr. Thomas’s son, Jack, shot himself in the office, though I’ve always thought Rance had something to do with it.”
“That’s very interesting,” Stone said. “We’ll come back to that. Do you often overhear conversations among these three men?”
“All the time. You see, my grandparents came to this country when my mother was three years old. Grandpapa died when I was six, so I was raised by my mother and grandmother, and they always spoke Sicilian around the house. I didn’t put the language on my employment application because I thought nobody spoke it, except in my family.”